A Song of Suns and Starships: Book I: A Game of Worlds
by The Great Lord Dovahkiin
Summary: Based on a Reddit post. What if A Song of Ice and Fire was rewritten in a futuristic, sci-fi setting? Here's my attempt at answering that question. Rated M because it's ASOIAF.
1. Prologue

**This is based on an idea I found on reddit the other day. I would give credit to the poster, but the username is deleted. Disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF. That belongs to GRRM and associated parties. I'm not making any money off this, blah blah blah. The only thing I own involved in this project is my computer.**

Gared did not like this.

He and two others had set out from Starbase Black ten days ago in a small rangeship, and ever since had been traveling. They had found no signs of life, not even of the savage Wildlings, who were so primitive that they didn't possess warp drives.

That is, until now.

"We should start back," he urged. The faint light of the faraway suns were fading by now, casting the many small, icy worlds of the Ice Nebula in darkness. "The wildlings are dead."

"Do the dead frighten you?" Knight-Captain Ser Waymar Royce asked, a smile threatening to appear on his face.

Gared ignored him. At seventy four, considered just around middle-aged, he had seen pompous, privileged recruits come and go. "Dead is dead," he said. "We have no business with the dead."

"Are they dead," Royce asked quietly, cocking his head. "What proof is there?"

"Will saw them with his oculoscope," Gared retorted. "If he says they are dead, that's proof enough for me."

Will sighed, not wanting to get involved. "My mother told me that dead men sing no songs."

"My wet nurse said the same thing, Will," the Knight-Captain replied. "Never believe anything you hear at a robot's tit. There are things we can learn even from the dead."

"We have a long journey ahead of us," Gared pointed out. "Eight standard days, maybe nine. And night is falling."

The knight glanced at the sky dismissively. "It does that every day at around this time. Are you afraid of the darkness, Gared?"

Gared tensed, rage welling up inside him, only barely held in check. Gared had spent sixty years in the Night's Watch fleet, barely a man when he joined. He did not take such insults lightly. But after a moment, his wounded pride and rage were soothed by something much rarer- a small bit of fear.

He could see that Will felt the same. There was something wrong with this particular world orbiting the cold star at the center of the nebula. Something was… off- the cold was strange, unnatural. Gared felt that they should board their small rangeship and set off for the safety of the Night Wall as quickly as possible. But that wasn't something that he could tell his commander.

Knight-Captain Royce was the youngest son of a long line of proud lords, one that now found itself with too many members. He was merely twenty-seven, with eyes greyed by implants and a slender form. He rode upon a large synthosteed, equipped with weapons that made those Gared and Will possessed seem like toys.

He wore a long black strongsilk cloak, with the telltale glint of cheap durasteel underneath. On his left arm was mounted a mid-quality Power Gauntlet, a telltale sign of a noble. By his side hung the hilt of a plasmablade, another mark of high status.

Royce had been a Sworn Sailor of the Night's Watch Fleet for less than half a cycle, and not a single brother could say he had not prepared for this ranging, at least when one considered his wardrobe.

"Lord Admiral Mormont said that we should track 'em, and that's what we did," Gared told him. "They're dead, perished, and they aren't going to be bothering anyone no longer. The ship's sensors say that we're in for a rough journey, what with the gas storms approaching this sector. We'll be lucky to skirt the edge. If we get stuck in it, we could be immobilized for days, and there's a possibility of a cosmic rift within the week.

Royce ignored him, instead opting to focus intently on the gas giant this world was slowly being pulled towards, its destruction inevitable within a century. Drumming his fingers on the hilt of his plasmablade, he ordered, "Tell me again what you saw, Will. Everything- don't skim over any details."

Will had been a non-human bounty hunter before he joined the Night's Watch Fleet, hunting down and killing dangerous creatures for a hefty sum. However, he hadn't had a license, and when Governor Mallister's men had caught him, he had the choice between fifteen years in a deep-space labor camp or joining the Fleet. Will was the best tracker in the Fleet, and one of the stealthiest, too.

"The settlement is two miles from here, over that ridge, beside an ammonia stream," Will said, frowning through the glass visor that obscured his face. "I got as close as I could without being detected, maybe two hundred feet. There's eight of them, both genders present, with no women as far as I could tell. They erected a shelter against a big cliff and put up a field to protect it from the elements. The field's down now, so the place was almost entirely covered with snow, but the sensors on my oculoscope could still make it out. The thermal generator was down too, but still in working condition. Just deactivated. Everyone was dead- my 'scope picked up no life readings."

"Did you see any wounds, or did your scope determine a cause of death?"

"Well, no," the ranger admitted.

"Did you see any weapons?"

"Some repeaters, a few rifles. One man had a cannon strapped to his back. Heavy one- maybe a gamma ray gun. Some fuel cells were in the snow next to him. None had shields."

"How were the bodies?"

"Most looked like they'd fallen, but a few were propped up against a rock," Will shrugged. "Looked like they had been moved there, almost."

"Maybe the ones on the ground were sleeping," Royce suggested.

"No, they'd fallen. They were splayed all around," Will insisted. "There was one woman up in the trees, with a sniper blaster. I made sure she didn't see me- disguised my thermal. But when I got closer, I saw she was dead too." He shivered a bit. It looked involuntary to Gared.

"Your equipment not working right?" Royce asked.

"No- it is. The wind's getting through it, though."

The Knight-Captain turned dismissively to his other ranger. "What do you think caused their deaths, Gared?"

There was a cold conviction in Gared's voice when he spoke. "It was the cold," he stated. "I saw men freeze many a times on these worlds, and the wildlings have few portable heating units. If they ran out of fuel for their generator… it wouldn't be long before they began to feel warm rather than cool, as if some power above had pitied them and decided to warm them. Before much time had passed, they would have simply passed away, feeling for all the world like they were in a Dornish cantina."

"Beautiful words, Gared," Royce remarked dryly. "I would've never thought it in you."

"Well, the cold's getting in me too, ser. I know- I've felt it before." Gared checked his portable thermal field generator. "Lost power in one of these years back. I've got a cybernetic hand now because of that. And I've known far too many who've frozen to death with smiles on their faces."

The Knight-Captain shrugged. "You should take better care of your equipment, sailor."

Gared glared at the man, his opaque visor hiding his hateful eyes. "We'll see how well you fare on a _truly_ cold planet." He turned away, hunched over, and fell silent.

"If he says it was the cold that did them in…" Will began.

"Have you served a shift on patrol this week, Will?" Royce asked.

"Yes, ser." Will had notorious bad luck with the patrols. He spent more time in a starfighter than out.

"And how did you find the Wall?"

"Weeping," Will said, referring to when the cold star at the heart of the nebula was unusually warm, disrupting the orbits of the many asteroids that made up the Oort Cloud known as the Night's Wall. "I doubt they could have froze, if the Wall was weeping. This isn't an especially cold world, so if the star was warm, then it wasn't chilly enough."

Royce bobbed his head in assent. "Smart lad. We've had a few gas storms recently, and a cosmic rift the other day, but nothing indicating temperatures low enough to kill grown men. Men clad in Wyon fur, with a thermal generator, let me remind you." The knight was confident, an easy smile gracing his face. "Will, lead the way. I would like to view these dead men myself."

The code of the Fleet bound them to follow the order, so Will took the lead with his synthosteed, the robotic beast hardly making a sound in the snow. Terrain didn't much matter, as even the cheapest synthosteeds could easily adapt to nearly any ground. The most expensive ones, which perhaps Royce could have afforded back when he was a real lordling, simply hovered, bypassing any issues of the sort.

The night grew darker as they traveled. They were only thirty million miles from the cold star, but its light was so weak that night lasted most of a rotation on this world. Stars and other worlds began to appear, pinpricks of light in the sky.

The gas giant reflected some of the cold star's light, bathing the land in a soft glow. They were all grateful, as the synthosteeds' headlamps could only do so much.

"We can do better than this for speed, surely," Royce said after the gas giant had reached its peak of light.

"Perhaps your mount can, but ours our not of the same standard," Will shot back, fear removing most of his deference. "Perhaps, ser, you would prefer to go on ahead?"

The Knight-Captain snorted, affronted, but said nothing.

Somewhere nearby, a pack of icewolves howled.

Will leapt down from his steed, landing ungracefully in the snow.

"Why are you stopping?" Royce asked.

"It's right over the ridge, ser, and in case they are alive, as you suspect, it's better to travel on foot, in case they hear our steeds."

The Knight-Captain paused a moment, his visor reflecting the cold light of the gaseous world above. A strange wind whistled through the trees.

"Something ain't right here," Gared muttered.

"It isn't? Pray tell." Royce's visor was clear, unlike Gared's and Will's, and a mocking smile crested his face.

"Can't you tell?" Gared asked. "Listen."

Will suddenly tensed, and Gared knew he understood. Fear was in the air. He could nearly touch it, taste it, _see it_. Something was very wrong.

"A great many sounds, yes, but none which are out of place. Do the leaves rustling truly bring you so much fear, Gared?" The ser chuckled as he asked the question. Gared didn't reply, so Royce dismounted his steed, holding the hilt of his plasmablade in his hand. Gared had seen the likes of those few times before, and it was a beautiful thing, with jewels scattered along its length. It looked unused.

"There isn't much light here, ser," Will said in a warning tone. "If you activate the blade, it'll give us up to anything within a mile. Better go with some durasteel- I have a dagger in my pack."

"If I decide that I wish to be instructed, I will tell you," The Knight-Captain commanded. "Gared! Stay, guard our steeds."

Gared nodded. "I'll set up a comm beacon, so we can report back to the fleet."

"A beacon, you fool?" Royce asked in disbelief. "If there are any wildlings within communications equipment on this planet, they'll pick up our signal instantly."

"A beacon will keep away animals, though," Gared countered. "Animals and… other things."

Royce's face became a mask of grim resolve. "No beacon."

Gared said nothing for a moment, then relaxed. "No beacon," he agreed, quietly.

Royce turned away, starting up the hill. "Lead the way," he commanded to Will.

A moment after they climbed the ridge, Gared followed, watching from the top by a great sentinel tree that stretched hundreds of feet into the sky.

"Gods," he heard Royce swear as he hacked his way through the trees. Looking around, Gared realized that he could see no sign of all the bodies Will had spoken of.

Will whispered something that Gared could not make out, but from its tone, it was something urgent. Royce didn't move, laughing a loud, clear laugh and declaring, "Your dead men seem to have decided they didn't approve of this locale, Will."

Will didn't speak. Gared followed his eyes, watching as they landed on the gamma ray cannon he had spoken of earlier. The wildlings would never leave that behind, stupid as they were, without a fight. And Gared saw no sign of such a struggle.

"On your feet, sailor," Royce ordered. "I don't see anyone. I won't have you hiding from men that aren't there."

Slowly, Will got to his feet.

Ser Waymar looked around, dismay evident in his eyes. "I refuse to return to Starbase Black a failure on my first expedition. We _will_ find these savages. Up the tree, and be quick. Look for a thermal field nearby."

Gared watched as Will scurried up an ironwood perhaps two hundred feet in height.

The ranger's attention was ripped away from his long-time comrade as his commander called out, suddenly, "Who goes there?" Although his tone was confident, there was an undercurrent of abject fear.

He could see Will stop moving as well, uncertain.

No answer came, and for a moment Gared thought that the Night-Captain had lost his wits. But then he saw movement, to his right, barely visible.

Glowing white shapes were moving through the woods. When Gared tried to look directly at one, it disappeared. Gared couldn't move- fear had gripped him, seized control of his body. If Will said anything, he didn't hear it.

He was brought out of his trance by Knight-Captain Royce's clear voice. "Will, where are you? Can you see anything?" The knight was turning slowly, plasmablade ignited and casting the clearing in a soft red glow. "Answer me!" As a sudden chill swept the area, seizing the clearing its cold grip and holding tight, he shouted once more, this time exclaiming, "Why is it so cold?"

Gared's thermal generator had overloaded from the effort of trying to keep him warm, and would remain inactive until he got to warmer temperatures. As he frantically tried to restart the piece of machinery, he saw _it_.

A glowing shape slid from the woods. It was tall, and was nearly transparent. It almost looked like it was made of light, and Gared thought he could make out flowing lines of code running across its skin in intricate patterns. At the same time, it also seemed to camouflage as it moved. It was like Gared was seeing two beings at the same time- one a pale white ghost, the other a rapidly morphing shape that took the color of the scenery around it.

Ser Waymar exhaled sharply, nervously. "Come no farther!" The Knight-Captain's voice was full of fear, cracking like a boy of three-and-ten. He threw his cloak back, revealing the light durasteel plate, and Gared heard shields whirring to life as the lordling pressed a button on his Power Gauntlet.

As the Other began to glide forward, Royce raised his Gauntlet. With a hum and a flash, a burst of blue light flew towards the Other, but harmlessly dissolved a few inches from its skin, with the telltale blur and shimmer of a shield visible for a few seconds. The Other stopped for a moment, and then the strangest plasmablade Gared had ever seen appeared in its hand as if from nothing. It was long and white, with occasional swirls of ice-blue light flowing around it.

Ser Waymar Royce looked at his Gauntlet for a moment in dismay, but then straightened. When he spoke, his voice was devoid of its earlier fear. "Dance with me then," he declared, in a moment of bravery that surprised Gared. He lifted his plasmablade high, defiance shining in his eyes. In that moment, and forever after, Gared was proud to call him a comrade.

The Other stopped, its eyes flickering around faster than Gared could track. They were pure blue, shining like miniature suns. For a moment, Gared was lost in their sheer beauty, but he awakened from the spell as more Others floated in from the woods around the clearing. Five at least, perhaps more.

Gared wanted to warn the ser, to do something, but couldn't speak, couldn't move. His mind wasn't frozen in the same way as before, but his body certainly was. The Knight-Captain showed no fear, grim in his duty. And then the Other moved.

A pale, glowing blade moved silently and swiftly through the night air.

Royce met it with a blade of his own, but unlike the usual electric sound that resulted from two plasmablades clashing, a high, piercing wail echoed through the woods. The Other kept striking, impossibly fast, and it spoke to Ser Waymar's skill, speed, and intelligence that he managed to parry the blows. Still, he was pushed back a step. Then another. And then once more.

The remaining Others watched silently, impassive spectators to a battle between man and something beyond him. They made no move, content to stand still.

On and on the battle went, and thirty seconds felt like an eternity. The sound of the blades meeting was nearly driving Gared mad, and he could see Will covering his ears.

Royce was getting tired. He panted as he was pushed back yet another step, feinting at the Other's right, striking at its left, deflected. The Other swung, Royce parried. The cycle continued.

Until the Knight-Captain moved a millisecond too slow. The plasmablade grazed his side, cauterizing the wound it made and filling Gared's nostrils with the terrible smell of burnt flesh. Royce touched his side, crying out in pain.

The Other spoke then, in a language that sounded like a mix between ice cracking, a computer whirring, and a beautiful song. Gared could tell, however, that the words were mocking, humiliating the brave knight.

Ser Royce moved forward with renewed fury. "For Consul Robert!"

He snarled, lifting his red-hued plasma blade and swinging it in a savage sidearm slash, putting all his weight behind the blade. The Other moved to parry before Royce even lifted the sword, predicting his actions.

When the plasmablades met, Royce's overloaded, burning out. The hilt exploded, taking the knight's right hand with it.

The sound was too terrible for Gared to describe, but it stayed in his head for the rest of his brief life. Royce fell to his knees and screamed himself hoarse, covering his eyes, blood welling from a thousand tiny cuts across his body.

And then the rest of the Others moved, swinging at Royce in cold silence. If his shields were still active, they had no effect, as the plasmablades cut him to ribbons without even a single shimmer.

The Others were laughing.

Will had closed his eyes, but Gared still had no control of his body, so he was forced to watch his commander die a gruesome death. He looked so small there, a mere boy. As Gared watched the Knight-Captain's body, the Others seemed to vanish.

Will climbed down from the tree, picking up Royce's shattered hilt. He looked around, not noticing Gared. As he stood, Ser Royce rose behind him, blue eyes glowing, the same lines of numbers crossing his body, although his skin was still that of a man.

Will turned, and then seemed to close his eyes right before Royce grabbed his throat, squeezing it.

Gared ran.

 **A/N: So I know that Will is the POV character of the prologue, actually, but I accidentally started writing as Gared and then just ran with it. Please read and review, and I would prefer no flames, although I realize that the haters need to flame to keep themselves warm.**

 **Cheers,**

 **TGLD**


	2. Bran I

**A/N: So I just had a lot of fun writing the prologue, and nothing else to do, really, so I decided to "transcribe" the first real chapter into my sci-fi version. I kinda wanted to get past this one because I think it's probably the most boring one to write for me, at least in this book, because the technology really changes nothing, as does the alternate setting. There wasn't much I could do here, other than change political references, make Ice a special type of plasmablade, have them ride hovertech, make Wintertown a big city (although more of that comes later) make the direwolves bigger, and make Theon have a gun. It may sound like a lot, but it's not really much, especially compared to the last chapter. Disclaimer: GRRM and Associated own ASOIAF. I own none of this.**

 **BRAN I**

Morning had dawned on the world known simply as "The North", dawned with a chill that hinted at a change in seasons. Several members of the ruling family of the North, the Starks, had set out that day to see a man beheaded.

Bran rode among them, excited and nervous. This was the first time he was deemed mature enough to board the hovercar that would take them to the execution site, a hallowed ground out in the countryside.

Next to him sat his father, Lord Paramount Eddard Stark of the North. The Lord Paramount ruled for life and with absolute power, and while the office was technically not hereditary, nobody would ever dream of not electing a Stark to the position.

Bran was discussing who exactly the man might be with his brother, Robb, when they arrived. Robb thought he was a wildling, one of the primitive savages of the ice nebula, who had recently been united by Mance Rayder, the new King-Beyond-the-Wall. Although the Night's Watch Fleet was diligent in its duty, occasionally a galleon full of raiders slipped through the barrier, and once they were in, it was easy to get out again.

Their discussion was cut short by their father. "It is time," he said grimly, exiting the hovercar. Bran and Robb followed. By that time, Father was standing silently atop the holy hill, a lonely figure silhouetted against the rising sun.

Eddard Stark was a tall, solemn man, with long brown hair and grey eyes. Although he was merely seven-and-forty, the white in his beard made him seem closer to seventy-five. His face had a grim expression on it, a sharp contrast to the man who would sit with his children and tell them stories once night came. He was not wearing the face of Bran's father- no, he was a different man. He had become the Lord of Winterfell.

A moment later, the silence was disturbed as two guards wearing Stark colors brought out the man from a separate hovercar. He was bound with electrocuffs, but he did not struggle. Father asked him questions. He answered some, and others he did not.

Bran stood between Robb and Jon, his bastard brother. They seemed at ease, or at least more so than him. He tried to mimic their steadfast expressions, but to no avail.

Finally, Lord Stark seemed satisfied with what he'd learned, and made a gesture to his two guardsmen. They took hold of the man once more, dragging him to the durasteel block on the top of the hill with surprising gentleness.

 _Sympathy for a dead man,_ Bran mused. _It's the least they can do for one about to meet his doom._

Lord Stark approached the block, no true emotion showing on his face. Bran's father's ward, Theon Greyjoy, handed him the hilt of his plasmablade. "Ice", it was called. While it looked like any other when deactivated, upon activation it revealed itself to be of Valyrian make. Unlike most plasmablades, which were simply long cylinders of contained energy, Ice had the actual shape and design of a sword. It was stronger than most, and could cut through materials resistant to other plasmablades.

His father straightened, adjusting his grip on the blade. Raising the blade high above his head, he said, "In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, the First of his Name, Consul of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Commander-in-Chief of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and High General of the North, I do sentence you to die."

Jon moved closer to Bran, whispering in his ear. "Keep your stomach quelled," Jon commanded. "And don't look away. Father will know if you do."

Bran kept the contents of his breakfast inside him, and did not tear his gaze away from the sight of a dying man.

The blade fell, and the man died. There was no blood- the wound was cauterized instantly. Bran felt a bit sick for a moment, but true to his promise to Jon, he did not heave.

The head rolled down the hill, bouncing to near Theon Greyjoy's feet. The dark-haired boy was a youth of nineteen, perpetually smiling and finding amusement in everything, no matter how gruesome. He chuckled softly, then laughed and kicked the head as far as he could, sending it flying away.

"Ass," Jon muttered softly. He turned to Bran, placing his hands on the younger boy's shoulders. "You did well. Father will be pleased." Jon was already fourteen- he'd seen this many times.

The ride back to Winterfell took nearly an hour, as the hovercar could only go so fast offroad, and the holy hill wasn't exactly close to the Winter Town. When the spires of the city and the great towers of the castle appeared in the distance, Jon, Robb, and Bran exited the car, their synthosteeds running from the city to greet them. Together, they rode well ahead of the main convoy.

"The deserter, regardless of his crimes, died bravely," Robb stated. "He did not fear the sword." Robb was big, broad-shouldered, and still growing as boys his age were wont to do. He was his mother's son in every way- barely a single trace of his father could be found in him.

"He did not fear the sword because he was already dead from fear inside," Jon replied. "No, he did not die bravely, _Stark_." Jon, on the other hand, was every inch his father's child.

Robb snorted. "Others take his eyes, Jon, it isn't easy to show no fear of a blade coming down on your neck. He died well. Race to the bridge?"

"Sure," Jon shouted, already racing away. Robb swore with words that Bran knew he wasn't supposed to hear, and flew off after him.

While Bran's steed had the raw speed necessary to keep up, Bran himself didn't have an ounce of the skill required to ride at that speed. Soon after, the woods grew silent but for the sound of his synthosteed as it quietly hovered.

He was so lost in his daydreams that he never noticed his father beside him until he spoke. "Are you all right, son?" Bran's father had also exited the hovercar in favor of his synthosteed.

"Yes, Father. I'm fine. Just…" he trailed off. "I want to know something. Robb says that the man died bravely, for he did not fear the sword. Jon said that the reason the man didn't fear the sword was because he already had so much fear in him that there was no room for more. Which of them was right?"

"What do you think, Bran?" His father studied him intensely with those stormy gray eyes, but Bran didn't feel pressured.

"Well… can a man still be brave if he's afraid?" Bran asked, curious.

"That is the only time he can truly be brave," Eddard said. "Only in fear is real courage born." He paused. "Do you understand why I killed that man?"

"He was a wildling, right, father? One of the ones who slip through the wall in their galleons and steal smallfolk to sell them to the Others?" Bran asked earnestly.

Eddard stark chuckled and smiled a small, sad smile. "Old N.A.N. has been showing you her holovids again. The man was an oathbreaker, from the Night's Watch Fleet. Few men are more dangerous, as his very existence is a death sentence, so there is no crime he will not commit. But that was not the question. I did not ask you why he had to die, but why _I_ had to kill him."

Bran didn't really know. "The library droid says Consul Robert has a headsman and a firing squad," he offered up by way of answer.

"Aye, he does," his father answered. "As did the Targaryen consuls before him. But our way is the older way, the way of the First Men. Their blood still flows in our family veins, and we uphold their beliefs- one of which is that the man who passes the sentence should carry it out. Hear me and remember this, Bran: If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.

"One day, Bran, you will be one of Robb's Lord Mayors, ruling a fief of your own for your brother and your Consul, and the task of carrying out justice will be yours. When that time comes, you must take no pleasure in that task, but neither must you look away or flinch from what must be done. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is."

It was at that point that Jon appeared once more, cresting the hill on his synthosteed. He waved and shouted down at them. At first they were too far away to hear him, but as they came closer, they heard him yelling, " _Father, Bran, come up here quickly! Robb has found something!_ "

Jory Cassel hovered up next to them on a weaponized platform. "Trouble, my lord?"

"I would imagine so," Eddard Stark said, the barest hint of a smile on his face. "Come, let us see what situation my boys have found themselves in now."

A few moments later, the Stark party, with the associated guards, arrived at the top of the hill. They soon spotted Robb at the riverbank just north of the bridge. They were far enough from the city that the water was clear and sparkling.

The snow was heavy here. Robb, who had dismounted his horse, was knee-deep in the cold fluff, holding something in his arms.

The party dismounted, slowly moving through the snow to where Robb and Jon were. As Theon reached them, he took a step back upon seeing something in the snow, exclaiming, "Gods!"

Jory had drawn his pulse rifle, pointing it at a gray mass in the snow. "Robb, get away!"

Robb laughed, looking at the head of military operations in Winterfell. "She's dead, man. Calm down."

Bran's mind was racing. He began running, and although he fell face-first into the snow more than once, made good time to his brothers.

"So, what in the Seven Hells is it?" Greyjoy asked, breathless, hand still clutching his concealed radiation pistol.

"A wolf, I think." Robb answered.

"Wolf, my ass," Greyjoy replied. "It's a freak. Look at the _size_ of it."

Bran had to agree with Theon. The wolf was twelve feet long, and half as tall. It was covered in blood, and the smell of decay hung over it.

"No, not a freak," Jon cut in. "That's a direwolf. Huge beasts- they grow far bigger than your normal ones."

"Hmmph," Greyjoy remarked. "There hasn't been a direwolf outside the Nebula for centuries."

"This one would beg to disagree," Jon replied dryly.

Bran took a closer look at the bundle in his brother's arms, then recoiled, shocked, as he realized it was a direwolf pup. Once he got over his surprise, however, his delight overtook him and he moved closer, petting it nervously once Robb gave his assent.

"Here, Bran," Jon said, thrusting a pup into his arms. "There are five of them."

"Strange, direwolves inside the Wall after all these years," Hullen, the lead synthosteed engineer, muttered. "I don't like it."

"Perhaps it's a sign," Jory offered.

Bran's father frowned. "It's only a wolf's corpse, Jory," he reassured, but seemed troubled. "What killed her?"

"Hmm… there looks to be something lodged in the throat," Robb remarked, sounding a twinge proud of himself. "There! Just below the jaw!"

Lord Stark knelt down, reaching under the beast's head. After a moment, he grabbed something, and then pulled. With a wet _squelch_ , a shattered antler covered in frozen blood came free.y,

A disconcerting silence settled over the group. Unease and fear were in the air, that much Bran knew, even if he didn't understand.

"I'm surprised that she lived long enough to give birth," his lord father said, breaking the silence.

"Maybe not," Jory countered. "I've heard tell from Maester Luwin that sometimes the pups are born even after the bitch is dead."

"Born to the dead," a man put in. "Bad luck, it is."

"Oh, it don't matter," Hullen said dismissively. "They'll be dead soon enough, anyways."

"Aye, best get it over with quick," Theon Greyjoy said, drawing his gamma pistol. "Give 'er here, Bran."

" _No!_ No!" Bran shouted, drawing the little wolf closer. "It's mine!"

"Lower your gun, Theon," Robb ordered, with a commanding presence that neared their lord father's in authority. "These pups will be ours."

"You can't do that, boy," Harwin, son of Hullen, growled.

"We really ought to kill 'em. It's a mercy," Hullen reasoned.

Bran looked around, catching his father's eye in the hope of help. He was disappointed. "They speak rightly, my son. Better for them to die now, painlessly, than later on from the cold and starvation."

"What? _No!_ " Bran protested.

Robb held fast with him. "Ser Rodrick's red bitch whelped once more last week. It was a small litter- the nursing bot will have time to feed them."

Jory stepped in, "Then we would have to reprogram the droids."

Jon spoke up then, as Bran looked desperately around for aid, "Lord Stark, hear me." Jon was strangely formal. "There are five pups- three male, two female."

"And?"

"You have five trueborn children, my lord. They are of the same gender as these pups. The direwolf is the sigil of your house. Your children were meant to have them." Jon's cool logic was swaying the men, Bran could see that much. Whether it would work on his father was another matter.

Bran saw how Jon had saved the pups by leaving himself out. He was grateful beyond words to his natural brother in that moment.

Father understood as well. "Not a one for yourself, Jon?"

"The Direwolf is the emblem of House Stark," Jon stated grimly. "I am no Stark."

Silence threatened to engulf the gathering once again, but Robb spoke up. "I will reprogram a nursing droid myself, father. It shall be my sole focus until it is done."

"Easier said than done, son," Bran's father remarked. "You will not enlist the servants, or anyone else for that matter, in this. You will program the droids yourself.

"You must train them as well," Father ordered. " _You._ The beasts of the Nebula welcome droids bringing food, but will not obey the whims of anyone other than their master. No droids or servants can help you in this endeavor."

"I understand, Father," Robb replied, with Bran nodding his assent.

"You realize that they may die regardless," their father cautioned softly.

"We won't let them," Robb resolved. "I'll build a new medical wing if I have to!"

"Very well. Jory, Desmond, gather the rest of the pups. It's time we were returning home."

Soon after, they were on their way, and Bran was already ruminating on the merits of different names for his pup.

Halfway across the causeway, Jon stopped his steed. "Can you hear it?"

"What, son?" Lord Stark asked.

"Ah… ah… there!" Jon wheeled around his horse, moving back across the bridge. He disappeared from sight for a moment, and then came back into view, holding a ball of fur in one arm.

"He must have crawled away- the stench of death repulsed him, perhaps," Jon wondered.

"Or been driven off," their father said, taking in the sixth pup. His fur was silver, with black streaks across the head and glowing red eyes. It was a stark contrast to the other pups. Curiously to Bran, this pup had opened its eyes, while the rest were still blind.

"Hah! An albino," Theon Greyjoy laughed. "That one, I bet, will die a bit faster than the rest."

Jon Snow's glare probably would have caused the Ironborn to fidget if the young man had been looking the bastard's way. "I think not, Greyjoy," he said, a bit of venom in his voice. "This one's mine."

 **A/N: Read and review. I'll try to respond to any reviews I get at the beginning of the next chapter.**


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